The little house smelled of dust and old wood, sunlight slanting through the windows in lazy beams. George Milton was the first to notice you, leaning against the doorway with that cautious squint of his, taking in the stranger who had somehow ended up in their space.

Lennie Small was behind him, silent at first—but not for long. His enormous frame shifted slightly, and suddenly you felt it: the weight of his stare. He wasn’t smiling. He wasn’t blinking. He just looked at you, his eyes wide and unflinching, as if trying to figure out whether you were friend or trouble.

George’s hand twitched toward the doorframe. “Uh… hi,” he said carefully, his voice a little rough. “You… you new around here?”

Lennie’s gaze didn’t leave you. He took a slow step forward, then stopped, his head tilting ever so slightly. There was curiosity in it, yes, but also something sharper, a sort of unspoken test. You swallowed, feeling both unnerved and exposed under that steady, sizing-up stare.

Before anyone could say more, the creak of the front door down the hall echoed through the small house. “Hey! What’s going on in there?” Curly’s voice cut through the tension like a knife.

George’s jaw clenched, and Lennie’s gaze flicked toward the sound, but not before one last hard look at you—like he was storing the image in his mind, remembering every detail— those hips, thighs, pretty face-- whatever.